Indispensable
Author's Notes: Just a brief dark-fic. It's Half-Blood Prince compliant, and is my personal opinion of what awaits Severus Snape - or, rather, what would await him were I writing the series! JKR, no doubt, would not write this, Snape being so indispensible to the plot, but it's my vision, and until Book 7 comes along, you can all stop blubbering about it. Concrit, as always, is welcomed with obscene gratitude.
He noticed it first while grinding scarab beetles, the tremors in his hands – He could not fathom, at first, his difficulty with the mortar and pestle, tools he'd mastered even before Hogwarts. He paused in his work to stare at the trembling before resuming, but suddenly shook so badly he nearly overturned the hissing cauldron. Though his work had not progressed far, the potion was of enough delicacy for him to fear upsetting the simmering liquid.
After stilling the fires and vanishing the beginnings of a Disembowling Draught, he forced himself to sit down in an armchair near the small fire, and think.
It was July, hard though it might be to believe; just as the past summer had been unseasonable, so too was this summer chill and damp. The Dementors, of course, were no aid – unchecked by the Ministry, and with nothing to stop their preying on Muggles, their ranks grew exponentially. Yet it was more than that. An aura of foreboding evil lay over all the British Isles, from Inverness to Dorchester to Belfast, and no wizard doubted why. The Dark Lord, who had stayed hidden one year and bided his time the next, had grown in power. He was now as magical as he had been the date of his defeat, perhaps even more so, and Britain felt his taint on the land.
For the weather, it meant wind and water and clouds a deeper grey than were ever natural.
Had Severus been prone to rheumatism, he might have dismissed his sudden weakness as a side effect of the poor weather, but he knew better. A lesser man would have been in agonies from decades in the Hogwarts dungeons, but Severus had never felt so much as a twinge. No, this was not a physical ailment.
It was fear.
He, Severus Snape, was afraid. He, who had slain Dumbledore; he, to whom even the proud Bellatrix Lestrange now did deference in honor of his services; he, who should have felt master of all save in the presence of his one, true Master.
Yet –
When, fifteen years previously, he had chosen to play spy, double agent, in the first war, with no man but he truly knowing his allegiances, he had been confident of his ability to survive simply because both sides of the war needed him. For Dumbledore, he was an incomparably valuable font of information, a valued teacher, and a canny strategist. To the Dark Lord, he was the best and closest spy to Dumbledore he'd ever had, even past Pettigrew's invaluable services in the first war, and he was a potions master par excellence, without equal in the ranks of the initiated.
But now – he was no longer spy, teacher, or strategist for the Light. And with that tie obliterated, there was left only his skill as the Dark Lord's potions master, and as a fine, if not extraordinary, duelist.
Yet where Dumbledore might have rejoiced in his rival's downfall, and forgotten all his prior doubts in the face of victory, the Dark Lord retained suspicion. The Dark Lord's war was not yet over; but moreover, the Dark Lord did not know trust, or confidence, or forgiveness, for his servants. That was the real benefit of the Light, Severus reflected sourly. Trust, or sometimes in its place, forgiveness. There was none of that in the court of the implacable Lord of the Night.
His thoughts skittering too close to a terrifying truth, Severus stood sharply, and staggered on his first step, his knees shaking as badly as his hands. Snarling in anger and frustration, he stalked over to his potions table and restarted the Draught; he had enough strength to force his limbs into obedience despite his psychological weaknesses, and for a while they obeyed.
The potion was bottled and delivered before next Severus let himself over to the growing fear; now the sky had darkened. In an hour, or perhaps more, he would face a summons. All the Death Eaters were being called to the Dark Lord in the wake of Dumbledore's defeat, for the Dark Lord had new plans to make now that the Wizarding World's soft underbelly was exposed. Yet Severus had not been called; most saw it as an honor, that the Dark Lord did not feel the need to instruct or chastise, but Severus knew what Voldemort's "favor" was.
It was cold, hard calculation of interest. Before, the Dark Lord had accepted the risk in trusting Severus as far has he trusted any lieutenant among the Death Eaters, for Severus's information was invaluable. The Dark Lord, though capricious and unforgiving, had still calculated the risks and benefits of his trust, and decided to let Severus live, and continue his delicate work.
The risk of Severus turning traitor had, of course, been eliminated with Dumbledore's death; he would be killed or captured on sight, most likely the first were it any member of the Order who saw him. Yet his Master would now be unwilling to risk that Severus had ever harbored, even for a moment, a traitorous thought. What use, the traitor who can no longer spy? What use, the double agent, when the flow of his information stops?
Then, suddenly, the mark burned.
Whirling with the terror and exhilaration he always felt at a summons, Severus cloaked himself in shadow and masked himself in night, drawing the dark cloth snug about his form, and then, wand tip to the mark upon his arm, he disapparated.
He was alone. This thought registered first with Severus, when the world stopped spinning about him: the long, low stone chamber of the Dark Lord's hall was deserted, save for the Dark Lord himself, seated on the throne-like yew chair on the dais.
"Come, Severus," the Dark Lord said, his voice soft yet carrying.
Severus came, feeding all fear and worry and excess thought into the flame and the void he kept burning in his mind at times like these. When he was close enough to see the Dark Lord's eyes, he tucked all thought aside.
"Master," Severus whispered, kneeling first to do obeisance to the black hem of the Dark Lord's robes.
"Rise," his Master said quietly. The crimson eyes tracked every movement Severus made.
"Severus Snape, I shall confess to you, the two of us alone in this hall with none to overhear, that I am perplexed."
"My Lord?" Severus said, cautiously. He did not know his ground with the Dark Lord, when his position had so drastically changed.
"Come, do not interrupt me with your obsequiousness," the Dark Lord said with a touch of irritation. "We both know you mean little of the customary reverences."
"My Lord, I am always faithful to you, I would never blaspheme –"
"Yes, yes," the Dark Lord said with a wave of his hand. "Enough. I will tell you when I want you to speak. Until then, be silent."
Severus bowed his head, and listened.
"You see, Severus, I am in a quandary. I am faced with two choices: to let you live, and to strike you down where now you stand. I should prefer the latter, I confess – so much simpler, to have you dead, and not be plagued with the worry of some later betrayal. There is, after all, no honor among thieves; and what more are you but a thief of knowledge, a betrayer of trust? Yet I do not think I can do this.
"For you, Severus, to the rest of my followers -- and they are hundreds now, amassing by the dozens every month -- you are a hero, to be placed in a pantheon of the victorious once Britain falls. Though most are loyal – nearly all, in fact, though more out of fear than true devotion – I shall not underestimate the power of heroics on the imagination. If I kill you, then perhaps the younger ones, the more foolish ones, the weaker and less intelligent ones, will think that even for the faithful there is no certainty of reward. Why, even my beautiful Bellatrix might feel a seed of doubt, before she obliviated herself of the memory of even a moment's disloyalty.
"Severus, what do you think?"
"I should prefer to live, My Lord," Severus returned, and even in his terror he found a little humor in the desperate situation.
"Yes, I should rather think you would!" the Dark Lord said, allowing himself a chuckle. The sound of his laughter was more chilling than any other man's snarl, Severus thought as he waited for his Lord's next words.
"Yes." Then, suddenly, the Dark Lord's demeanor changed utterly. "Look into my eyes, Severus," he said coldly.
And then, Severus knew. Perhaps, had he been wise, like Bellatrix – a self-obliviate of all that was self-incriminating – or if he had thought to steal Dumbledore's pensieve at the last – but no. Even that would have left traces, whispers for the Dark Lord to break.
His Master, the greatest Legilimens still living, was about to do battle with the world's foremost Occlumens. Yet, while Severus was powerful, he knew that faced with the inexorable might of the Dark Lord's determination, he might keep his secrets hidden, but he could not keep the secret of his secrets hidden as well. The Dark Lord would feel the glassy defenses on his mind, the opaque barriers designed to let invaders slip along their edges without ever knowing an obstacle was there.
The Dark Lord would know.
In fact, Severus thought, as he slowly raised his eyes to meet his Master's crimson glare, the Dark Lord already knew.
When the Dark Lord's wand raised, Severus could not guess whether the next spell would be Legilimens – or Avada Kedavra.